Vulkan wound his fist into the rich, red mane and yanked her head up to peer into the tortured face. "You're out of shape." he opined bluntly.

The nobleman unhitched his horse and mounted up, walking the powerful steed up to the front of the coach.

"She's alright," he told Henrik, "just needs a little livening up that's all – give me the whip."

Moving like an automaton stuck in a bad dream, the slack jawed footman silently handed over the fearsome horsewhip and then, with a fatalistic shrug of his round shoulders, stirred the team into motion.

Vulkan waited until the coach rolled past and took up station a horses length behind the once more smartly stepping countess. After a hundred yards, or so, fatigue once again began to overcome her cramping thigh muscles and her stride again became erratic.

Vulkan began to play the tip of the long coach whip across the countess' as yet unblemished rump, stinging at the fabulous giggling globes to make her pick up her knees. His mighty cock once again beginning to stir as each excruciating bite of the lash caused the superb creature to yelp and leap forward with renewed, albeit short lived, energy.

From the front came the footman's warning shout.

"Sire, there's a hamlet coming up ahead!"

"Drive straight on through," the prince bawled back.

"But they'll recognise her, she's famous around these parts," came the anguished reply.

"Her own fucking mother wouldn't recognise her looking like this!" screamed back the laughing Vulkan, waving the enormous whip around his head. By which time they were trundling through the sleeping hamlet in a cloud of dust.

As luck would have it, it was chucking out time at the tavern and as the coach rolled past, a group of drunken peasants began to cheer. Applauding the fabulous, pale skinned Goddess prancing after the coach with the crazy nobleman, for what else could he be? Surging along behind her on his great midnight black stallion, stroking her with the whip for all he was worth.